


Seat in Hell

by Neffectual



Series: Havoctober [1]
Category: BritWres, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Gen, Horror, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 03:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12246393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: Jimmy had never imagined his seat in Hell was going to be like this; cattle class and as personal as a mass grave, he’d thought of pomp and circumstance, of descending the great staircase down with a smirk and a saunter.





	Seat in Hell

It was close, everyone packed in tight, brushing up against each other every time they moved, the scent of each other rising up into the air choking the nostrils and lungs with a mix of perfumes, colognes and body sprays all trying to mask the thick, bestial scent of body odour and sweat from being shoved in like cattle waiting for slaughter. The low hum of panic in the air made it even worse, and there was a smell underneath it all that suggested chemical toilets, the scent of stored waste muddying the air even more. He was glad to breathe through his mouth, though the idea of those scents rolling over his teeth and tongue didn’t exactly make him shiver in delight.  
  
He took a seat, pressed in on every side, a tight fit, thighs sandwiched together, making the backs of his knees sweat, making him aware of the ache in his lower back, the way his shoulder blades pushed into the seat. Curves of bone shoved into the metal framework of the chair, like the two skeletons were melding, twisted together into a vicious art piece of pain and wrought agony in motion. Jimmy had never imagined his seat in Hell was going to be like this; cattle class and as personal as a mass grave, he’d thought of pomp and circumstance, of descending the great staircase down with a smirk and a saunter.

Garbled sounds spewed from everywhere, the cacophonous volume ringing in his ears; the sheer pandemonium of a dozen languages and a hundred voices raised in conversation with tones varying from the bored to the nervous to the furiously angry, everyone with a complaint or a gripe with what was happening to them, and why. There was even the high, siren wail of a baby, and Jimmy quietly wondered what it had done to deserve being placed into this awful situation – he’d fought hard for his space here, taken time to get here, but a child? He gritted his teeth and stared resolutely forward at the back of the chair in front of him, hands tight on the armrests, as his black-painted nails tapped on them, polish chipping a little more with every drum of his nails, protesting the waiting time.  
  
Something glittered under the seat in front, something sharp and bright, calling to him the same way other voices in the throng called out to family, friends, lovers, battling as if they would be heard over the din. He leaned forwards, plucking it free, and smiled a sharp, nasty smile, all thin quirk of lips and no humour in it. He’d owned one like this before, a good, solid axe, sharp, with a strong handle on it. He hefted it, testing the weight, and the smile grew into something cruel and lazy. It wouldn’t take a lot of work.

The chair released his bones, and the throng went quiet as he stood, teeth and blade glinting, before the noise reached fever pitch. He swung through them as if they weren’t there, watching limbs tumbling, the spray of arterial red slicing through, the screams circling his ears and urging him on, faster, all the better to bleed you with, arms tiring eventually from large strikes. He had to slide his grip further up the axe’s handle and chop, rather than slice, as one did with wood, and that took longer and longer until he was slipping in the streaks of red-brown on the floor, bloody to the elbows and licking the taste of it off his lips.

He stood, bloody handed and bright-eyed, axe gripped so tightly that his knuckles were white, stark against the red, and surveyed the carnage, the field of bodies before him. He was here, he was king, he was going to march in and demand the throne he knew he was meant to have here. He laughed, quietly at first, then louder and louder as the sound echoed around him.

“You alright?” Clint asked, opening one eye from the next seat over. “Sounded a bit weird.”

“Hm?” Jimmy asked, before looking down at himself. No axe, no bloody hands. “Oh, yeah. You know how it is. Just fucking hate flying.”


End file.
